Meeting of Two Princes
by Black Sword
Summary: The young prince Marcellus Julius will become instrumental in enhancing the power of the Julii by joining his Uncle on campaign. Bright as he is, will he be able to enhance the family power when confronted by barbarians and the potential for civil war?
1. Chapter 1

The roar of demanding centurions retraining veterans and new recruits reached Marcellus Julius' ears only as background noise. He strode purposefully in the training camp wearing his miniature cuirass and _paludamentum_, stopping here and there to talk with a centurion or a new recruit, smiling, joking, regaling them with stories of this youthful misadventure and that one as only a ten-year-old could, as they smiled back, glowed, shared stories about fighting in Gaul and Spain with his formidable father, Amulius Julius Victor.

He did not ask about his older brother Titus. Military genius though he was, Titus was cold-blooded, harsh, and cruel, thinking nothing of taking a Gallic girl against her will as his personal toy, or sleeping with some noble's wife before his eyes. Marcellus privately considered his older brother to be dangerously unstable, and the only consolation to Titus' current campaigning in Spain against Carthage was that their father was there to keep him under control. Unstable though he was, Titus feared the legendary Amulius Victor, and knew the legions would gladly crucify him at a gesture from his father.

Not that Father was particularly active at the moment. He was standing pat in Numantia with his adopted brother Tertius Julius Coruncanianus, planning a campaign to bring the native Spaniards under direct Roman control. Uncle Herennius was outfitting a new legion, the Seventh, for participation in this new war, and a host of settled veterans from Segesta and fresh unblooded boys from Mediolanum and Patavium were signing up. Not only that, but a number of Massilian Greeks and tamed Narbonese Gauls had also appeared at his doorstep in Segesta, humbly asking to be allowed to fight. When Uncle Herennius had attempted to turn them away, they had invoked the names of Flavius Julius and Amulius Julius Victor, pointing out they owed blood debt to their master who, in the case of the Massilian Greeks, had freed them from the danger of barbarian Gauls, while the Narbonese had been civilized by the latter. Faced with such arguments, Uncle had had no choice but to accept them. So many men had come that Uncle Herennius had elected to recruit an Eighth and Ninth Legion as well as a Seventh. The Seventh and Eighth, composed of mixed Roman, Greek, and Gaul troopers, would be blooded in Spain, whereas the Ninth, purely Roman and the most veteran, would be kept in Italian Gaul while Father would decide where to send them. Assuming Uncle did not decide to campaign on his own, a prospect that became more likely every day.

Marcus Triarius, the governor of Arretium and the man personally charged with defending the Julii capital, was busy conferring with Uncle even now. A plebeian nobody whose family had served as _triarii_ for generations, he had impressed Vibius Julius, the oldest member of the clan, and had been ennobled by marriage to his granddaughter Julia Aurelia, a golden beauty of the highest blood. Marcus, a capable soldier, had demonstrated the latest equipment available to the legions, equipment that meant new tactics, tactics that even now he was working out.

Where Uncle might campaign was obvious. Dacia, with its fabulous riches, was the place to go. Any conquests there would reflect positively with both Senate and People, and would put his past experience in the East to use. The Dacians were stronger than the Gauls had been and the Spaniards were, and there was a Senate mandate demanding the subjugation of the Dacians immediately. As a result, the Junii were conquering Dacia even now, and Uncle had no intention of losing his share of the glory and loot. Skirting Junii-owned Illyria, he could certainly reach Aquincum and Campus Iazyges before the Junii subjugated all, especially with a top of the line legion of veterans.

"Marcellus Julius!"

Looking away from a parade ground where a grizzled centurion who had fought at the Battle of Narbo was drilling raw young Gauls into proper Roman legionaries, Marcellus looked to where he had heard his name called, spotting Uncle and Marcus Triarius walking towards him. Uncle Herennius Julius, Father's far younger brother, was a large, strong man with a level of military genius that far surpassed Father's. He had taken to shaving his head , which made him look even more fierce. Marcus Triarius, plebeian blood though he might be, was handsome in a patrician sort of way, with hazel eyes and a strong face. An irony, since the patrician looked far more the career soldier than the career soldier. Cousin Aurelia reported being pleased with the marriage, and it was clear that Marcus Triarius was absolutely smitten with her. A poor match if one was considering blood, but Uncle Vibius had chosen wisely, as Triarius would hold Arretium in the teeth of the gods themselves.

"Yes, Uncle?" he asked.

"What are you doing out here, young man? You know full well you're not supposed to be wandering about a legionary training camp!" Uncle growled, his blue eyes sparking, his face fiercely annoyed.

"Let the boy be, Herennius Julius. It does the men good to know the face of the man who one day in the future may order them to fight and die," Marcus Triarius said calmly.

Uncle shot Marcus Triarius a glare for what most patricians would consider presumption, but since great-uncle Vibius had decided that Marcus Triarius was worth ennobling, Uncle kept his mouth shut. Marcellus smiled at Triarius, then turned his attention to Uncle. "Did you want me for something, Uncle?"

"You are going home, nephew. Marcus Triarius is taking the Seventh on a quick campaign into the Passes of Brennus to clear out a large infestation. Reports indicate that men are gathering under the banner of Gutraucus of Carnutum, a survivor of the Gallic nobility. A large number of Gauls who haven't accepted our rule are reportedly gathering up there along with the usual riff-raff of escaped slaves and professional bandits. At last count, there are something like eight thousand men blocking off the Pass, preparing to attack Mediolanum. I am taking the Eighth and Ninth, and blooding them in Dacia before the Junii succeed in subjugating the whole place."

Marcellus nodded once. "So why am I going home? Neither is a particularly dangerous campaign, especially if I accompany you, Uncle."

Uncle blinked, surprised that he was not being obeyed. "You're a young boy of ten. Little boys don't belong in a legion on the march, especially when that legion is heading to battle!"

Marcus Triarius spoke up again. "Have you heard what the legions are calling him, Herennius Julius?"

Uncle glared at Triarius, clearly sensing that he was on the verge of losing this argument, and sure it would come from this direction. "What do they call him? _Citocacia?_"

"No." With great calm, Triarius looked Uncle in the eyes. "They call him _Imperatula_. The Little General. They all recognize his abilities. They all see he is far beyond the stage where he might play with toy swords. He is ready to begin training to be a great general now, not later. Why don't you see that, Herennius Julius? He's _your _nephew!"

Uncle fell silent, almost contemplative. Marcellus stared up at his uncle earnestly, no matter how it irked to be insulted. It had been a good put-up job, since everything Marcus Triarius was saying was true, but it was also a necessary job. Uncle Herennius was a _vir militaris _to his fingertips, a great Military Man, but he lacked any political acumen or diplomacy. Uncle could not see beyond warfare, so that meant someone sufficiently august of lineage had to accompany him to smooth over any bad impressions. Uncle Vibius was too old for what promised to be a rigorous campaign into Dacia, the other Julians were busy keeping control in Gaul, so that only left him. Thankfully, he was far more intelligent than any other member of the clan, so it should work out well. Training in war, and his _dignitas _would start growing now, instead of later, when all the glory had already been had by Father.

Finally, Uncle sighed, gave up. He might not be a politician, but he certainly knew when it benefited him to have one around. No matter how young. "Your father will probably want to gut me, but I suppose you may as well begin now rather than later."

A victory was a victory. Marcellus grinned up at his uncle. "Thank you, Uncle! I won't fail you, I promise!"


	2. Chapter 2

"It's a cold and bitter land, Uncle," Marcellus Julius observed, nudging his horse toward his uncle's as the sun slowly set.

"That it is, nephew. It would seem those greedy bastards the Junii were far wiser than I when they elected to conquer from Greece as the springboard, rather than Illyria," Herennius Julius replied dourly.

It had been an easy enough task to march into Illyria and past it into these untamed hinterlands that made up the Dacian domain. The Eighth, green though they were, and Gallic to boot, had performed well. The Ninth, veteran in composition, had taken to turning evening camp into prolonged training for the Eighth. Thus far, they had not encountered any enemy forces, and his scouts reported a disturbing lack of people anywhere in the area. They were still marching for Aquincum, the capital of this Dacian territory, but thus far, they had failed to encounter anyone alive.

Which was not to say they had not found desolate and empty villages, some burned to the ground, some not. Obvious signs of violence were found in some, yet in others, they found nothing to suggest an attack. Herennius had had his men bury the dead in the destroyed villages, and pick up what food and loot they could in the ones that were not, but besides that, they had found nothing. And it was beginning to eat at him. In any other invasion, they should have encountered locals of some sort, villagers, traders, even armies. Where had all the Dacians gone, and where were the Junii who were clearly on the attack?

"Is that one of the scouts you sent, Uncle?" Marcellus asked, pointing to the northeast.

Squinting, Herennius nodded as he saw the tell-tale high crest on the helmet that indicated this scout was from the Eighth, a new Gallic legionary. He was moving his horse at a gallop, so that could only mean trouble ahead. Finally, something normal. The utter lack of people, of anything normal, had been gnawing at his nerves. Trouble was welcomed at this stage.

"Marcellus, find me Titus Mamaea, Gnaeus Ennius, and Lucius Vipsanius," Herennius said, naming two of his tribunes and his legate. All of them were Julian clients, even though it was a state of affairs that angered Titus Mamaea, who was officially listed as a patrician in the census, but did not have the money or means to put his family back in the Senate. "I trust the Gaul has something useful to report."

"Roman."

Herennius turned his head to look at his nephew. "Your pardon, boy?"

"He's a Roman, Uncle. He may be from Narbo, he may be Gaul by blood, but we've tamed them and trained them in a properly Roman legion. That makes him Roman."

Grunting, he shook his head. What an odd boy! He might be in a properly Roman legion, but that didn't make him any less the Gaul, so far as he was concerned. "On with you, boy. Find me Mamaea, Ennius, and Vipsanius. Pass the orders for the legions to stop march and prepare for battle. Just in case."

"Yes, Uncle."

Marcellus turned his horse and galloped off. He had been frustrated when he discovered he lacked sufficient centurions to properly officer all three legions. After much earnest discussion with Marcus Triarius, they had agreed that Marcus needed a full complement of centurions, given the terrain he was going to be fighting in. That, despite the fact he had Greeks acquainted with civilized warfare. Without question, he had commandeered the remaining centurions for the Ninth, leaving him with the problem of the Eighth. Snapping up all the young tribunes he could, lacking in training and experience though they might be, he found he still lacked enough officers to command the Eighth. As a stopgap, he had lured many grizzled old centurions out of retirement in Segesta for one last campaign, but the Eighth remained his weak point. To counter that, he had assigned his three most capable men to keep the Eighth operational and assigned the Eighth the vanguard position. In case of frontal attack, the more seasoned Ninth would keep the Eighth from breaking. Or so Herennius hoped.

The scout arrived just after Lucius Vipsanius, Titus Mamaea, and Gnaeus Ennius had appeared, young Marcellus in tow. Tall, blond, and blue-eyed, the Gaul was young, clearly born only a little time before the Battle of Narbo had firmly sealed Julii control of Narbo and Massilia before the inward push into Gallia Comata. He saluted properly before beginning his report.

"_Imperator_, I saw a large column five miles to the northeast of us. My partner elected to ride further up, to see how many there were. He stayed behind to keep an eye on them, but from what he saw, there are about twenty-five thousand Dacians on the march."

Herennius kept control of his facial expression, even though his legates expressed shock. He only had nine thousand six hundred legionaries, not even half of what he was confronted with. Then again, the Battle of Narbo had netted big brother Amulius the agnomen of Victor and a triumph when he had defeated fifteen thousand Gauls with only the Legio I Aquilae. So it was not an impossible battle. Just difficult. "Twenty-five thousand men, eh? What are the enemy compositions? How many infantry, how many cavalry? Where do they seem to be going?"

The scout squirmed. Herennius frowned. Were these Gauls so stupid? Any half-wit scout would have known to try to take a count of what they were facing. Finally, the scout burst out, "That's just it, General. They aren't _all _men. I saw many women and children mingled in. Fighting men, my partner does not think there are more than five thousand genuine soldiers in that lot. Not only that, they seem to be following the road. If they continue like this, they'll eventually reach Patavium."

"Patavium? Impossible! We have treaties of non-aggression and trade with the Dacians!" Titus Mamaea protested. A handsome black-haired man with snapping brown eyes, he was a cunning man, living off his wits and military skill.

"What of it? That hasn't stopped us from marching here, has it?" Gnaeus Ennius replied. Militarily competent, he had attached himself to Lucius Vipsanius, whose only recommendation was loyalty and military ability. Ennius was rather plain, almost forgettable, while Vipsanius looked what he was, a soldier since birth.

"The point is moot. They're marching toward us, and that's all that matters," Herennius interrupted. Turning his eyes back to the scout, he scowled. "How quickly are they moving, scout?"

"They should arrive here tomorrow, General. Late morning, judging from their speed."

Herennius Julius nodded, turned toward Mamaea, Ennius, and Vipsanius. "You heard him. Get the Eighth to making camp. Not a temporary night camp. I want a fully outfitted camp set up. Wooden palisade first, battle towers, then trenches, wooden stakes if we have the time. I want every man in the Eighth set to digging, logging, and building. Vipsanius and Ennius, that's your job. Make those Gauls work if you have to decimate the legion. I'm sending the Eighth, Ninth, and Tenth Cohorts of the Ninth Legion to forage. Mamaea, you're in command of them. Move quickly, and don't lose a single man. We'll need them tomorrow. The Sixth and Seventh Cohorts are to assist the Eighth Legion in building. I want a stout camp, not something likely to let every last one of that horde in. I'll keep the rest of the Ninth with me, in case we encounter any unpleasant surprises. Mamaea, be sure I can find you, in case I need you. Dismissed."

Without a word, his principal legates rode off, each to their tasks. Marcellus rode closer to his uncle and looked off into the distance in silence. "I wonder..."

Herennius looked down at his nephew. "What do you wonder?"

"Twenty-five thousand people can be useful."

Herennius frowned, then shook his head. He was a soldier, first and foremost. Even Amulius could not defeat him when it came to tactics and strategy. But this young prodigy had displayed an uncanny ability for politics and war since the cradle. Whatever he was thinking, he was certain it would benefit the clan. "Wonder away, boy. Just remember that tomorrow there may be a battle, and that in that case, you are to stay within the camp. No arguments."

Marcellus looked up at him, a sunny smile. But the boy's gray eyes were cool and limpid. Whatever the boy was scheming was something impressive, then.


	3. Chapter 3

Through Herculean efforts, the camp was completed before dawn. One-tenth of a square mile of good flat land had been surveyed, trampled flat, dug up, fortified, and turned into a bristling Roman field camp. The walls were fifteen feet tall, excavated earth and tall timber, rising straight out of an eight-foot trench. The artillery towers were built another ten feet high, armed with new-model ballista or scorpions. Weapon depots, food depots, artillery towers, even a basic road layout had been set up, even though no one slept in anything better than their field tents, and they were all wrapped up in their _sagum_. The camp had been built to take control of a stream as well, so that they would have a continued source of fresh water. The camp prefect, the centurion most experienced with field fortifications and sieges, estimated they had enough food to last them for two weeks at full rationing.

Given such short notice, the two legions had performed marvelously. As soon as the inspection of the fortifications had been completed, Uncle had told everyone to lie down and sleep, and gave Mamaea command of the five senior cohorts of the Ninth, who had been allowed to sleep five hours during the night while everyone else labored. All the scouts had reported back, and had been sent out to keep an eye on the incoming horde. Estimates had been updated, and it now appeared that the enemy would arrive around noon. Five hours of sleep for the Eighth and the other half of the Ninth, an hour to prepare, and then he would march out the Ninth in battle order. More than enough time.

Marcellus had slept through the night, well aware his small body would not allow him to stay up the whole of the night, and awoke at dawn when his Uncle had roused him to accompany him on the inspection. After which, he had sat with Mamaea in the tallest artillery tower, keeping an eye on the horizon. Twenty-five feet above the ground, they saw the leading edge of the enemy horde long before anyone on the ground, and watched it cover mile after slow mile, one with each hour. When there was only an hour until noon, Marcellus had climbed down from the tower.

"What word, _imperatula_?" the _primipilus _centurion of the Ninth called.

Marcellus turned and smiled. "The Dacian horde is about an hour away! I'm going to go wake my uncle. Assemble the legions, Obsidius!"

Walking up the Via Principalis, Marcellus made his way to his uncle's tent as the four hundred eighty men of the First Cohort of the Ninth started rousing their slumbering counterparts. As he entered his uncle's tent, Marcellus walked past the work chamber and into the sleeping chamber, greeting the clerk with a smile. Looking down on his sleeping uncle, he wisely decided not to touch him. Uncle Herennius was soldier first and foremost, and Marcellus did not wish to wind up with his uncle's hands on his throat due to a soldier's reaction to unexpected touch. Locating a pitcher of water, he took three large paces back, and tossed the pitcher's contents on his sleeping uncle.

Waking up with a roar, Herennius groped at his side for the sword he was clearly not wearing, then stopped, blinking as his eyes came into focus on his nephew.

"Why in the dark name of Hades did you do that?" he demanded, furious.

"Precisely because I did not want to have you try to kill me for touching you," Marcellus replied tartly.

Growling obscenities, Herennius doffed the now-soaked tunic he had slept in, and grabbed a dry one. "I assume the enemy is almost here?"

"An hour away. The scouts were not lying when they estimated noon," Marcellus reported.

"Good. Get out of here. I have to put on my gear. I'll meet you at the forum."

The forum was the open space opposite the commander's house. With a nod, Marcellus strode out to the forum. The hustle and bustle of legionaries being roused out of their beds, roared into their gear, handed loaves of bread to quickly munch on, and otherwise prepped for war was everywhere, with so much activity everywhere that even the young nephew of general would be ignored. Quietly perching on the small dais that had been built during the night, Marcellus looked out at the slowly growing sight of an army in assembly, patiently, even eagerly awaiting for their commander to speak to them. Two legions, nine thousand men ready, willing, and eager to shed the blood of the enemy, each one outfitted with the standard type of weaponry. Each one of these men could be expected to wield his gladius and throw his pila with a modicum of skill, while he was well protected by _lorica hamata _and _scutum_, chain mail and shield.

Two legions, the Eighth and Ninth the family had recruited since the Senate had issued the order to conquer the world. Of the two, the one that worried Uncle most was the Eighth. A mixed legion of Gauls and Romans, the first five cohorts were composed of the less-seasoned, and less reliable, Gauls. While this made logical sense, it annoyed Marcellus that Uncle naturally distrusted the Eighth due to where they came from. Then again, his nursemaid had been a Gaul enslaved during the capture of Narbo, whereas Uncle had fought against them with Uncle Manius at Condate Redonum. Biases ruling the world. If one could learn to play on a bias correctly, then did one rule the holder of the bias?

A voice roared in a volume that would make Stentor proud. "Soldiers!"

Marcellus looked up and to his right. While he had been busy thinking, the legions had gathered to listen to their commander, who just so happened to have arrived, looking cheerful and confident. Tossing his hair out of his eyes, Marcellus settled down to listen.

"We are many miles from our familiar training camps in Segesta. I'm sure this has been an unusual march for you, as it has been for me. A long, scenic tour of Venetia and Illyria! A bit of fun with a scandalously forward girl or an uninhibited lady of the night! More marching than fighting! Sufficient food in our stomachs to keep them from growling! Even a leisurely walk through the wilds of Dacia!"

Uncle paused in his speech, looked out at the sea of faces. "Yesterday, you got a taste of what _real_ soldiering is about! Hectic logging, building, sweating! Sleep deprivation! And today, you get another taste of real soldiering!"

Uncle paused as the men cheered. There was more to come, and they were getting whipped up into a frenzy. Uncle waited out the cheers, then resumed talking to the men. "Today, we face the men of Dacia! Fierce, tattooed savages, who worship false gods and do not know the value of civilization! There are many thousands of them, and only a few of us. What that means, men, is that they were too afraid to face us in a fair fight! But we are the better. We are the stronger! No man can be allowed to shirk his duty! I want to see every man's sword wet with blood. I want to see blood. I want to bathe in blood. I want to bathe in blood for a week. Now, get out there, and show those barbarians what we are made of!"

Uncle stood in the middle of the dais and accepted the cheers of his men. The plan of battle was simple. The artillery men would load their weapons in the towers, while the legions would be in formation five hundred paces outside the fort, giving them enough room to be able to retreat in good order, should the horde overwhelm them. In theory. But no plan of battle ever survived first contact with the enemy. The rest was in the lap of Fortuna.


	4. Chapter 4

Decimus Maternus stood on one of the towers, inspecting his precious artillery, his only company the young master. The legions were in battle formation, ready to fight. The legionaries would take the initial enemy charge on their shields, much like the ancient Spartans had. What differed was the weapon of choice. Each legionary would use his gladius to stab toward vital organs or precious groins, not to slash chaotically and waste energy. The design of the battle lines would allow every line to be rotated, so that each man would not be required to fight more than he could safely handle. Given the numbers they were facing, it was still possible they would be overwhelmed. For that reason his uncle was down on ground level with his bodyguard, ready to react with the cavalry wherever it was most needed. The horde was becoming clearer with every passing moment. Should anything go wrong, however, he was to take the horses that were still within camp, grab the young heir, and flee.

"It's a good day to fight," Maternus said, sighting his scorpion as two of his soldiers loaded a bolt.

"It may not even come to fighting," Marcellus replied, eyes intent.

Maternus looked over at his young master, surprised. A client of the Julii, he knew where his loyalties lay, but he was still surprised by the young master's comment. "But your uncle is intent on a fight and a triumph!"

"What my uncle wants is irrelevant. What matters is what most benefits the House of the Julii. Make sure to prepare an escort."

Maternus shook his head. "Fabius, Cornelius, go get twenty men ready."

The two men saluted, slid down the ladder to get the horses. Maternus turned from his scorpion and looked out across the field to the coming horde, and shivered. It was a huge horde of people, more than he had ever seen in one place in his entire life. From up here, Maternus could see oxen, cattle, wagons, hundreds of hundreds of them.

And the people! So many people! They numbered more than the stars, the long line of them reaching all the way to the horizon. There were thousands of thousands of them, enough people to populate a city as large as Patavium. A horde of barbarians more than capable of overwhelming their position, butchering them, seizing everything they had.

"As I expected," Marcellus commented abruptly.

"Eh?" Materunus asked, confused. What did the young master expect?

"Look out there, Maternus," Marcellus said, heading toward the ladder.

"I see the same thing I've been looking at for the past day! A horde of barbarians moving toward us!"

Marcellus had reached the ladder. Even as he stretched himself to reach each rung, the boy replied, "That's just it. They stopped moving."

Maternus looked away from the young lord, and turned his gaze to the horizon, genuinely looking at the horde, rather than regarding it as part of the scenery. Wonder of wonders, the horde had stopped. Not only that, the young lord had expected it, planned for it, and even taken measures to react to it. "How did you know?"

"I just did."

Marcellus scampered down easily enough, striding toward his horse and his escort. He declined help up the horse, and rode out toward where his uncle had assumed a clear vantage point of the possible battlefield. A battlefield that would fail to serve its purpose, if he had his way.

"All ready, _imperatula_. Do you wish to see your uncle?" Fabius asked.

Marcellus nodded as he climbed up to his horse. Astris was a white stallion that his father had bought from Sertius Gallus, the best horse breeder in all of Italia. A showy battle horse that had been meant as a gift for Oppius Junius Brutus, the head of the Junii had declined it, still mortally offended that Triarius had refused to permit a Junian legion to march through Ariminum on its way to Segestica. Since the original recipient had declined it, Father had elected to give it to him. Too showy and ostentatious for his taste, but it would do until he could get his own. "Hyah!"

Marcellus rode toward the gates of the camp as they swung open. His twenty-man bodyguard struggled to keep up. For longer than he could remember, he had been able to outsmart and outride everyone he knew. Now he had to prevent Uncle from committing an error.

Even as he rode toward his uncle's position, it was obvious he was anticipated. His uncle did not even turn to look at him once he arrived. "I told you to stay inside the camp."

"There will be no battle today."

"Don't be a fool, boy. What do you call that incoming horde? They've only stopped because they've finally seen us. Once they recognize our banners, they'll see us as a threat, and attack."

"As Mamaea said yesterday, we have treaties of non-aggression and trade with the Dacians. They already have war against the Senate and the Junii. They don't need war against us. I will wager Astris that we shall receive an envoy from them soon enough."

Uncle looked at him, a derisive glance. "You will, eh? Then I'll wager you a black horse even better than Astris."

Marcellus laughed happily. Just what he wanted! "It's a deal, Uncle! And here comes the envoy now!"

Uncle turned his gaze and stared off into the distance, noting the large man carrying a white flag racing toward them in a heedless gallop. A small bodyguard of twenty men followed, all at the same reckless pace. Uncle shot Marcellus a look, raised himself in his stirrups, bellowed, "Hold your fire! Allow them through the lines! Cause them no harm!"

At his words, the military tribunes he had kept near him raced off to confirm the orders to the various cohorts. It never hurt to take an extra precaution to prevent a misunderstanding. Uncle shook his head, then said, almost completely off the point, "I don't speak Dacian."

"Greek is the universal language anyway," Marcellus replied.

Uncle fell silent for a moment, then muttered, "I hate Greek."

Marcellus sat his horse patiently, well aware that it had been a struggle to pound Greek into his uncle's skull. Not that he himself suffered any such issues. He had mastered Avernian and Aeduan Gallic, Greek, and even the peculiar polygot the Spanish tribes spoke. Like most things, languages came easily to him. But he did not intend to waste his talents in the West. The East, however, was untapped. Pontus, Egypt, the remnants of the Seleucid Empire…enough glory to be won to overshadow the conquests of Gaul and Spain.

When the Dacian envoy arrived, Marcellus was moved to blink. The man was huge! Easily six and a half Roman feet tall, he towered over his Uncle, who was not a short man. Big, bulky, a man in his early middle years, his body wrapped in furs and covered in strange, exotic tattoos, his brown hair spiky and his mustache bristly, a warrior born. Marcellus looked from his uncle to the envoy and back. Deadly, dangerous men, warriors born. A battle between the two would not be settled by skill, but by Fortuna. Pray to all the Gods there was no battle, and make sure there was not!

"Imperator res publia? Iunius Imperator?" the Dacian demanded in slow Latin.

Marcellus and his uncle stared. What in the world?

"I am the general of these legions," his Uncle replied slowly, enunciating each syllable. "My name is Herennius Julius, son of Quintus Julius, son of Flavius Julius, brother of Amulius Julius Victor. I am of the Julii. When did you learn Latin? Who are you?"

The big Dacian looked over his Uncle, clearly surprised. Then he looked at the legions, seemingly studying what he saw. "Speak truth. Red banners, not green. Not look like Junii." The strange visitor growled. "Io Burubista Rex Minimis."

Marcellus looked at his uncle in utter confusion. Not just an envoy! A king of the Dacians! Or perhaps a prince? His Latin was mangled, as he had declared himself to be a trivial king, but it was clear he was not just any normal man. Uncle spoke once more. "Why are you here? Where are you going? Where did you learn Latin?"

Burubista grunted. "We flee from home. Gather many chieftains surviving tribes, declared we flee. Junian legions destroying our people, our home. Five of them march on lands, no warning. They attack us, defeat many great armies. I destroy one legion, they wish revenge. Learn Latin from men we enslaved. Junii and Cornelii want us gone. Want return of Aquila. We flee. Maybe Julii show mercy. We done nothing. They attack first. Julii help defeat Junii?"

That last was said with so much hope that Marcellus shook his head. Impossible. Unthinkable. The very idea of a attacking four veteran Roman legions was absurd. Especially since the Junii were allies. Rivals, but allies nonetheless. But the curious thing was that Burubista hoped for Julian assistance. Perhaps, whoever had negotiated those treaties of trade and non-aggression had not been as clear as he should have been. But it was a help.

"We cannot attack the Junii. They are our allies," Uncle declared harshly.

Burubista's eyes narrowed. He reached for his sword. "You help Junii?" he demanded, ready to fight—and die—at the wrong answer.

"No," Marcellus said clearly. A boyish voice, but a cool one.

All eyes turned in his direction, his uncle angry, Burubista's confused.

"Who you?"

"I am Marcellus Julius, son of Amulius Julius Victor, son of Quintus Julius. I am the son of the leader of the Julii," Marcellus replied proudly. He might be a third of the size of the big brute, but he was descended from Venus and Mars, whereas the Dacian could not claim ancestors so prestigious.

"You…son of Amulius Victor? You king?"

Marcellus' eyes narrowed. Yes, to a Dacian struggling with Latin, _primus inter pares_ would be a foreign concept. Perhaps using a concept he was more familiar with was indeed the wiser course to take. "Io filius rex."

Burubista relaxed, nodded, smiled. Now that he was on more familiar ground, many of his worries seemed to be gone. "Julii help? Save us?"

Marcellus looked at his uncle, who was still fuming. His uncle would not be pleased at being denied such an opportunity for a triumph, but the needs of the family came first. Especially in Gaul. While all of Gaul had been, theoretically, conquered, the tribes on the Oceanus Atlanticus like the Redones still fumed. As he had told his uncle, twenty five thousand people could be very useful. "The Kingdom of Dacia is lost. We cannot save it. We can, however, save your people."

Burubista looked suspicious. "How save us if can't save lands?"

"We can give you new lands to live in. But you must live under our rule."

Burubista looked displeased. "I am king! I rule!"

"Not if you wish your people to continue existing. If you want that, you yield your kingship to me. Once you do, I will settle you in Condate Redonum."

Burubista's confusion returned. "Where that? Why no Patavium?"

Marcellus shook his head, as much in surprise as a gesture of denial. "Not Patavium. Your people are proud warriors, and they would be unhappy there. I am sending you to the other end of the world. Far from the Junii. There, you will fight Gauls, and teach them to submit to Rome. In exchange, you get to live there comfortably. You learn to be Roman."

Burubista mulled this over in his head, then asked dangerously, "What about me?"

Before Marcellus could even begin to formulate a reply, a voice called out in Gallic. He turned his head, pale. "Uncle, we have trouble."

Herennius scowled. "Trouble of what kind? You know I don't speak Gallic!"

"I'll let our friend report it himself." Switching to Avernian Gallic as the panicked scout from the Eighth galloped in, he called, "Speak Latin! The General needs to know!"

The Gaul was the same one who had reported the arrival of the Dacian horde. "General! Roman legions! Four of them! Fully up to strength and veteran!"

Uncle did not need to know more. "Coming from the same direction as the horde came in from, I take it?"

"Yes, General! They're at full marching speed. They'll be here in an hour, if that!"

Burubista was pale as he looked from Marcellus to Herennius and back. "What we do?"

"Yes, what do we do, boy?" Herennius growled in Greek. "I can't defeat four veteran legions with one veteran legion and a raw legion of Gauls!"

Marcellus smiled at both his uncle and at Burubista. "I have a plan. You'll both like it very much."


	5. Chapter 5

"I find myself as thrilled as if I was listening to the best production of Greek drama in the last century," Tertius Julius Coruncanianus commented to his elder brother, Amulius Julius Victor. Not a Julian by birth, but by adoption, he was still very loyal to his adopted big brother, even as they continued to transform Numantia into a proper Roman fortress city, in anticipation of the campaign through Spain.

"As do I," Amulius Victor replied, a grin on his face as he read about his son's exploit. Incredible! That a boy so young could be so talented! He resumed reading aloud the letter his brother Herennius had sent him.

And what a plan it was, brother! The sheer cunning and boldness in it would have left you gasping for breath. The boy herded all the Dacian refugees into camp, and put the legions in between camp and the incoming Junians. He also commandeered Burubista's fighting men, all five thousand of them. Apparently, those five thousand had been the survivors of his successful destruction of one of the Junian legions. Reinforced like that, I took personal command of the Ninth, and gave Agrippa command of the Eighth. I sent Mamaea with Burubista, and got ready for the worst brawl of my life. I don't mind admitting I was certain that we'd go down, but just as your son predicted, the appearance of red Julian banners confused the Junians so much, that the four commanders arrived in person to see what in all of Hades was going on. None other than Valerius Junius Brutus, son of Oppius Brutus himself, was the field commander, and he had several other high-born patricians with him, including such names Lucius Catalina and Appius Claudius. He demanded to know what I thought I was doing, if you please! As if the tawdry blood of a Junii Bruti even begins to compare to the blood of a Julian descended from Mars and Venus!

"There is a Senate mandate for the destruction of the Dacians, is there not? As such, I was not aware I was not allowed here," I replied.

"Well, yes, true enough, but what are you doing with that horde of unwashed barbarians?" he pressed.

"Oh, them? They've seen the error of their ways, and have decided to become properly Roman."

"What? A pack of lies! Hand them over!"

"Not on your life! They've passed into Julian clientship, and are out of your hands. Turn around, and go deal with rest of Dacia!"

"Hand them over! They belong to me!"

"We can make a military battle of this, you know," I told them casually. "I'm sure my big brother would love to hear that you decided to attack me in an attempt to stop a properly Roman activity of acquiring new clients and expanding the influence of Rome."

You can' begin to image his outrage, big brother. He was seeing the possibility of loot and slaves waltz away from him. I think he would have tried anyway, save for your reputation and that the Eighth, Ninth, and the Dacians intimidated him. From what Burubista told me later, Valerius Brutus had been the one in command of that destroyed legion! Rest assured, I had that trumpeted from one end of Rome clear to the other once I got back to Segesta.

Anyway, once we marched all the way back to Segesta, I had the Fourth Gallica come and escort the Dacians to Condate Redonum. From what I hear, they've been driving the various rebellious Gallic tribes into the ground. The Dacians developed quite a ferocious hatred of the Gauls. Not my doing, as you can tell. Marcellus heard about how the Redones had smeared your statue in Condate Redonum with feces. Your son has quite the vindictive streak in him.

From what Triarius tells me, you've got the First Aquilae, the Fifth Scorpos, and the Sixth Victoria with you in Numantia. Well, big brother, you'll be happy to know that the Seventh, Eighth, and the Ninth will be arriving soon. The Seventh is well-blooded, and Gutraucus' head is decorating the Pass of Brennus. However, there's also a few minor details I may have to mention.

Amulius paused in his deciphering of the letter to mumble through this part. The continuous scribbling had to be read aloud in order for someone to understand, and this part was a bit of a surprise. When he finally understood it, he began to laugh. "Oh, the cunning! Excellent, just excellent!"

Amulius looked at Tertius Coruncanianus, his dark eyes amused. "Congratulations, you have just adopted a son!"

Tertius was utterly confused. "What?"

"Apparently, Burubista would not settle for being a client king of the Julii. He wanted to retain his dignity as prince of the Dacians. So what my son did was have an adoptive law prepared and pre-approved. All it requires is your official consent, and we will have acquired the last of the Dacians as our clients, and you will have acquired a son by the name of Tertius Julius Coruncanianus Burubista."

Tertius Coruncanianus stared, flabbergasted. "I can't have a son older than I am!"

Amulius Victor raised an eyebrow. "Ah, but you will. I insist, brother."

Tertius scowled, clearly not pleased. "What of his family? Are they Roman now too?"

"Oh, no. Marcellus adamantly refused. He agreed to give them the citizenship, and put them in Marinius' clientship," Amulius replied with a smile. "However, he did not do so out of the bottom of his heart. Marinius was ordered to hand over his oldest unmarried daughter to the big brute."

"Surely you're not going to allow this!" Tertius demanded, his bright blue eyes still appalled.

"Of course I'm going to allow it. Apparently, on the entire march back, Marcellus spent the time tutoring Burubista. His Latin has improved, and he now knows the basics of fighting a legion. Can't let such a useful resource go to waste, can I? With six legions at our disposal, it'll be an easy affair to subjugate Spain. I'll take the First Aquilae to Asturica, Titus can hold Corduba with the Fifth Scorpos, and you can hold Numantia with the Sixth Victoria. Herennius can take the Seventh and Ninth through Osca and Carthago Nova. The Eighth…I think I'll give it to Burubista, and tell him to take Scallabis. That should keep him busy!"

"Amulius! You cannot be serious!"

Amulius smiled. "Dead serious, brother. Burubista has even adopted civilized clothing. I think I'm going to grant him enough land in Lusitania to qualify him for the Senate. Oh, how I'll enjoy seeing those puckered up windbags react to an utter barbarian in their hallow meetinghouse!"

"At least his children won't be utter barbarians!" Tertius snapped, still unhappy.

"Oh, no, they won't." Amulius smiled once again. "In fact, they'll be a decoration for our family. I'm going to grind it into the heads of those utter snobs that to be properly Roman is more than just being born it."

Silence met him. Amulius shook his head, and sat down to ponder this delightful turn of affairs. With the Dacians terrorizing the northern Gauls, it was perhaps time to raise a tenth legion as well. Carthage still stood, and it would be necessary to garrison Spain for a time. So, after the conquest of the Spain, send the First back to Segesta for furlough. Send the Fifth, Eighth and Ninth on across the strait and into Africa, and since the Numidians were allies, march through their lands, and finally take Carthage. Yes, this would all work out wel, and to the glory of Rome and, more importantly, the Julii.

Amulius paused and conjured his son's appearance in his mind's eye. Light-haired, with pale skin and cool gray eyes, the boy looked more like Flavius Avus more than like either of his parents. In another ten years, who knew what the boy might do? Once Spain was pacified, he would send for the boy. He would observe him, to make sure that Titus' flaws were not present. And if the boy was not found wanting, than he had found the leader of the next generation of their clan.


End file.
